Pretty Things Won't Make It Better
by CyanideDreams610
Summary: An RPF based on David Bowie as a Professor. A naive student is traveling with her professor in Nepal to work on her thesis. She accidentally gets herself inebriated and the professor...takes advantage. Warning: Noncon, smut, and evilish  Bowie. ONESHOT.


**Warning**: There are graphic scenes of pure kinky smut and noncon. Do not read if you're easily offended. I do not condone noncon in real life, this is just a fictional story.

An RPF based on Mr. Bowie as a Professor. A bunch of people on tumblr (myself included XD) have been fantasizing about Bowie being a Professor, and this story just popped into my head. Although, a little warning...he's not very nice here :P he's an evil Bowie.

Thanks to raredeadly for a speedy beta!

* * *

The Western girl shifts uncomfortably on a rickety chair and rewraps the shawl around her shoulders tighter against the chilly autumn air. She is in the middle of a cramped outdoor restaurant and she watches the local Nepali barter in the surrounding town market. The only other Westerner in sight—in the whole of the province, as far as she knows—is the last person she wants to see: her professor. She is working on her thesis on Nepali Religious Art, and he is supposed to be teaching her the basics of field work, but she often thinks that he accompanied her on this trip solely for the purpose of making her feel like an idiot.

She wears an ankle length skirt, short sleeve shirt, and a shawl in swirls of earth tone colors; the professor wears a brown tweed suit. Across the table, he sits as if holding court with his nose turned up disdainfully.

"We have just arrived here today, and tomorrow we will have to trek up the mountain—" he gestures towards the horizon where a mountain's silhouette looms black against the clear night sky, "—where we will spend a week in isolation at the temple for your thesis. After that, we will have to go to the next town. We won't get another chance to walk this market and I haven't been here for years. It'd be nice to catch up with the local customs."

"Professor," the girl says, "I'm exhausted, we got here late, and we have to wake up at the crack of dawn tomorrow for the hike. We got lost; it took us forever to find our guesthouse. They misplaced my luggage, so we had to buy me an entire new wardrobe. A cart ran over my foot, and a cow kicked me!"

"That cow barely brushed you," he waves her off.

"It kicked me! And we've already walked half the market to buy the clothes."

"Exactly! We've only walked _half_ the market. Now how can we go about doing things halfway?"

She groans and pushes her slipping glasses further up her nose, "How about I meet you back at the guesthouse? I'm ready to fall asleep where I sit."

"Oh, piff! You can sleep when you're dead. You have spent your entire life either going to class, or studying at home. It's not that I don't commend you for your efforts; after all, I doubt you could have even gotten into the university, let alone my class if you weren't so studious. Lord knows you're not a prodigy—" the girl's eye twitches, "—but now is your chance to get out and explore the world—explore this land with a culture completely different from your own. I suggest you take it. I know your type. Once you've completed your thesis, you'll start teaching and never step foot out of the University again. We are walking through the market." He nods at his decision and tosses money on the table to pay for the bill. She clenches her jaw and resigns herself to following him around all night.

After a few minutes of mindless wandering, a merchant selling hand-woven rugs catches the professor's attention. He walks on over, admires the merchant's wares, and discusses the price for a particular one that catches his eye. Something sparkles at the corner of the girl's vision. She turns to see an array of bottles, different colors and sizes, all lined up. She walks up to the vendor and asks, "What are inside these bottles?"

The vendor smiles, "Wine. We have a special way—special, mmm…process for making wine. I promise, you will taste it nowhere else! Nowhere!" He speaks slowly with a heavy accent.

"Really?" she replies, unconvinced. She doesn't really care for alcohol, having never tried it nor feeling any need to, but the bottles do look very nice.

"Would you like to try some?" he takes a random bottle and pours her a small glassful. "Free to try. If you like it, you can buy one."

She warily gazes at the offering then shrugs, "Well, one drink won't kill me." She smiles at the vendor and accepts. "Thanks," she gestures towards the vendor with the glass in a sort of salute, downs the drink in one gulp, chokes, and starts coughing.

The vendor chuckles good-naturedly. "Ah! Slower. It is very strong!"

"I'll—keep that in mind," she wheezes. She clears her throat and hands the glass back to him, "I'll uh…I'll take that one right there." She points to a dark-blue circular bottle with two pinched sections, making the bottle give the impression of rolling water.

The girl looks through her wallet, hands the profusely thankful vendor the money, and takes her new souvenir. She takes a few steps away from the stall and suddenly feels that that earth is undulating beneath her. Her vision blurs and a pain is developing at the back of her skull. She takes a few more steps; her dizziness grows and she stumbles. Someone grabs her upper arm, keeping her from falling over. She turns to thank her rescuer and comes face to face with her professor. Her friendly expression sours a bit at the sight of him.

"Are you alright?" His blank face is betrayed by the concern written in his eyes.

She couldn't quite hear him; all she can hear is the blood roaring in her ears, she slurs slightly, "Wha–?"

He leans in, "I smell alcohol in your breath."

Well, that she heard. She closed her mouth shut with an audible click. He narrows his eyes, "Do not tell me you are drunk."

"Um…" she swallows nervously.

"You are!" he snaps, "I can't believe you—" He snarls something caustic under his breath, then he continues, "Well, I guess you've gotten your wish after all; we're going straight to the guesthouse. You're absolutely useless in this state." He drags her in the general direction of their rented room.

"I had one," she holds up an index finger, "_one_ drink!" Her shawl begins to slide off her shoulders from the professor's manhandling.

"Oh, well, if it was only one drink," he leers, "then congratulations—you are both useless _and_ a lightweight."

Her shawl slips off and lands on the ground, forgotten, although she's still holding the bottle in a death grip. "I never drank before…" she weakly whines; he doesn't even spare her a glance.

At the guest house, they have to walk up a few flights of stairs. The girl leans heavily on her professor and stumbles every few steps. "God, I hate stairs," she complains, "why did they build so many stairs?"

"_You_ hate stairs?" his breathing is labored, "I'm practically carrying you up these stairs, you incompetent sack of potatoes, _I _hate stairs…and I'm not too fond of you at the moment either."

She mutters something very rude, which he chooses to ignore.

They finally reach their floor and he rests against the wall for a few seconds to catch his breath; the girl half sagging in his arms. "For goodness sake, get your feet under you, you worthless slag!"

"Maybe I could if you're not crushing me at such an odd angle," she snaps, "Let _go!_" She smacks her palm against the man's shoulder and he releases his hold on her waist. She straightens and mumbles, "Dirty old man," as she takes a few awkward steps away from him. Anger flares in the professor's eyes from her comment.

She zigzags down the hall. Silently fuming, he follows her, hands stuffed in his pants pockets. After almost dropping the keys twice and her souvenir once, she finally manages to get the door opened. She steps over the threshold and—without flicking on the light—walks to her bed, kicks off her shoes, and falls face-down on the bedspread.

The professor stalks in, still livid, and softly locks the door behind him. Faint light from the moon and market stalls shine in from their large balcony window. He takes the bottle from the girl's limp fingers, grabs a glass, and pours himself a drink. He takes a sip and grimaces, "You really are a stupid girl. This is the cheapest moonshine you will ever come across. Whatever you paid for it, you were ripped off."

The girl groans and shifts to lie on her back, "I like the bottle."

The professor picks up the bottle and surveys it, "A bargain-basement item that can be found in any local craft store; like I have said – you've been ripped off."

He swallows the rest of the contents in the glass and pours himself another; then he sets the bottle on the nightstand. He leisurely sips as he moves to the foot of the girl's bed and studies her from head to toe. Her glasses are askew from when her face was pressed against the mattress. Her slightly-rolled-up shirt exposes a thin line of skin. Her hair spreads out across the pillow like a halo. Her skirt is tangled around her knees, revealing pale, slender calves.

He takes another drink and runs his tongue over his lips to clear the leftover alcohol. He chews on the inside of his left cheek as he continues to stares. He downs the rest of the drink and leaves the glass on the floor.

After taking off his suit jacket and dropping it on the floor, he sits down by the girl's hip. Her eyes open and she looks at him, confused. "Professor? What? What is it?" she asks, "Your bed is over there," she gestures to the queen-sized bed on the other side of the room.

Ignoring her, the professor takes off his shoes and socks. With deliberate motion, he places his hand on one of the girl's ankles. She flinches; he grips tighter. She lurches into a sitting position, but the world tilts around her, and she only succeeds in falling back down. He gradually draws his hand higher up her leg as he whispers, "You really are very foolish…"

His hand travels beyond her knee, disappears behind the fabric of her skirt, slides to her inner-thigh.

She shouts, "_What're you_–"

He cuts her off by slapping his free hand against her mouth, "Quiet," he orders. He pauses and his voice softens, "A young, naïve girl, traveling in an exotic country where few speak the same language; her head always up in the clouds, more trouble than she is worth." He removes his hand from her mouth and gently strokes her cheek, "If it wasn't for me, your thoughtlessness would have gotten you hurt many times over. Perhaps a lesson should be taught." The girl gulps. "Shall I teach you a lesson, girl?" He smiles at her a little viciously.

The girl blinks and takes a calming breath. "Alright," she answers, her voice wavering, "I get it. I'm sorry. I'll be more careful."

He takes away her glasses and places it on the nightstand. "I get it!" she cries, "Lesson is learned!"

He smirks at her, "Somehow I doubt that," as his hand journeys further up her leg and ghosts over her panties.

She yelps and grabs hold of his wrist over the fabric of her skirt. He snatches her hand away to keep her from impeding his progress and forces it against the mattress. He moves so that the upper half of his body lies on top of hers. The hand by her panties begins to stroke her through the material. She inhales sharply and stares at her professor with huge eyes.

He croons into her ear, "So you think I'm a dirty old man, do you?" His fingers push her panties aside, and her whole body jerks, "Well, _you_ have been…a very…_very_…naughty…little girl," he pushes one finger against that most sensitive spot.

She shrieks and thrashes wildly. He shifts so that he is completely pressed against her, hindering her movements, and shoves a hand against her mouth. The girl flails her arm out and manages to grab hold of the blue bottle, knocking her glasses onto the floor. She swings in hope of bashing the bottle against the man's head, but he blocks and seizes it away from her. He tsks, "Now that's not very nice," as he throws it across the room; shattering the glass.

She continues to scream even though his hand muffles her voice considerably. Her struggles are in vain since he's lying heavily on top of her. He grabs the hem of her shirt and lifts it up. She yells louder against his hand as he cups one of her breasts over the bra. He tips his head and kisses the top of her bosom. She jumps and he kisses his way across her chest, running his tongue along the cleavage. He removes his hand from her mouth and, just as she takes a huge gulp of air, firmly presses his lips against hers, silencing whatever scream she was about to launch. She freezes as he forces his tongue between her teeth. He loosens his tie as he ravages her mouth. He breaks away and, before she can recover, wraps his tie around her mouth and knots it at the back of her head.

She wakens from her momentary stupor when she feels herself gagged and begins her struggle anew. She pushes at his chest and shoulders but he barely even moves. He fluidly pulls her shirt off over her head. She squeals against the gag and moves to rip it off her mouth. He smacks her hand hard enough to smart and orders, "Don't touch that," as he takes off his waistcoat and tosses it aside.

He leans towards her and starts unbuttoning his shirt. She throws a fist and cuffs him across the jaw. He bares his teeth in a silent snarl and flips her over onto her stomach. He grabs hold of both her arms, pulls them down to her lower back; then holds them in place with a knee. The girl can feel her circulation being cut off and a terrible bruise forming from where he's holding her down. He calmly finishes unbuttoning his shirt. That shed, he unhooks her bra and smoothes his hands across her back. He removes his knee in order to straddle her, opting to restrain her hands with his left hand. He wetly kisses the nape of her neck, her shoulder blades, and upper back. His right hand caresses her side and slides below to cup her under the loosened bra. She flinches as she feels his slightly calloused hand rub against her skin and tries to buck him off of her.

He groans against her neck and breathes into her ear, "Are you sure you want to do that?" as he grinds his hips into her ass to illustrate the result of her movements. She stiffens as she feels something hard prod against her rear. "That's better," he smirks as he flips her over so that she can face him, "you stay just like that, like a good little girl, and don't you move a muscle."

He pulls off her bra. She gasps and he, still astride, takes a moment to appreciate the view before he takes two handfuls and starts kneading her breasts. She cries out and yanks on his hands, shoves him in the shoulder; tries to scratch at his face. Nothing is working on getting him away from her. He grows weary of her thrashing and catches her wrists; he holds them over her head with one hand. His bare chest is pressed against hers as he growls into her face, "What have I said? Don't. Move."

His sudden outburst causes the girl to shrink into herself. His expression softens a bit as he leans into her and starts kissing her jawline. She wrenches at her hands, trying to slip her arms free. He tightens his grip, unfazed, and licks his way down to her neck. He presses his nose against her pulse point and inhales deeply, nuzzling her, then makes his way down to her breast, drawing his teeth lightly on the skin as he went. He snakes his tongue out and slowly circles it around one nipple. The girl gasps and arches; he pushes her back onto the bed. He takes her fully into his mouth, sucking and nibbling the delicate flesh. She fists her hands above her head and trembles violently. He moves to treat its twin with equal attention.

She starts squirming and is muffling something against her gag. He stops to curiously peer at her. She is staring at her professor desperately, still saying something against her gag. "What was that? I couldn't quite hear you," he says, voice tinged with amusement, as he pulls the tie out of her mouth.

She rasps, "Please–"

He cuts her off with a brief kiss. "Please?" he repeats huskily against her lips as he drags a hand up her thigh, under her skirt.

She takes a quick wavering breath, "_Please–_"

He kisses her once more, "Please, _what?_" he darts his tongue out to her bottom lip and pushes his hand down her panties.

She makes a noise that sounds a bit like a gasp; a bit like a sob. "_Please, stop,_" her voice falters.

He presses his lips against hers and kisses her deeply; kisses her roughly. He starts rubbing his fingers against her folds – against that vulnerable spot that makes her writhe underneath him. He breaks the kiss and goes to suck on her earlobe; he brushes the tip of his finger lower and takes satisfaction in the slickness beginning to form.

He licks the outer shell of her ear before moaning, "You don't want me to stop," he nips her earlobe, "look at you." He inhales sharply between his teeth before hissing, "_You're all wet,_" and slides a finger into her.

She jumps and yelps something that sounds like, "Ow!" as she tugs her arms against his restraint. He withdraws his finger and brings it to his lips, tasting her; like he's taking a small sample of a delicacy he is about to consume. He brings his hand down, caressing her waist and hips; then he lifts up her skirt to her stomach. He slips his fingers into her panties and begins fondling her once more, slowly as first; so very slowly. He soon starts to stroke faster and harder. Her breathing quickens and she bites back her moans; she turns away in shame, squeezing her eyes shut. He takes the opportunity to lap at her exposed neck. He rolls that little hardened swelling between his thumb and index finger. He stops kissing at her throat to watch her face. She whimpers and arches into his hand. He obliges her and presses harder against her until he feels her shake fiercely under him, softly weeping out her release. He sees a varying of emotions play across her features. First is gratification, a slowing of the breath, and a sort of melting underneath him. Then he sees guilt, humiliation, and a few stray tears slip past her closed eyes.

He releases her wrists and kisses her cheek and hair; then he pulls her skirt and panties completely off of her. She's still too wrapped up in the afterglow of her climax to notice anything until she hears him unbuckle his belt. He kicks off his pants and she feels his excitement pressed against her pelvis. She franticly shoves at his chest. He moves his arms under her and heaves her to him, effectively trapping her so that the only thing she could do is either beat or scrape at his back. He pushes her legs apart with his knees and presses the tip of his desire against her center. She recoils and digs her nails into his shoulder, frantically tossing about but getting absolutely nowhere since he holds her firmly.

"Wait," she hysterically cries, her voice octaves higher than it normally is, "Wait, I don't want–"

He gently nips at her chin and pushes himself in a few centimeters. She sobs, "I've never…please…_I've never_…"

"Lie still," he whispers, kissing her lips, "don't be tense," as he slips further into her.

"Wait," she whimpers, "wait, wait…"

He licks at her jawline and slides himself fully inside her, stretching her more than she's ever experienced. She grinds her teeth together and lets out a painful bellow. "Stop," she weeps, "you're hurting me…_you're hurting_…" as she claws at his shoulders.

"Calm yourself, love," he whispers into her hair, undaunted by the blood she's drawing on his skin, "It won't hurt for long." He kisses her temple.

She tries to do as he suggests and forces her body to go limp, but he starts moving, slowly, and every time he thrusts, she stiffens. She shuts her eyes and clutches at his shoulders. "That's it," he moans against her neck as he caresses her hips, "That's it…relax. Relax."

Sure enough, the pain soon subsides from searing agony to a dull ache. He places a hand to one of her knees and pushes it higher to spread her legs further apart. He shifts himself ever so slightly to a different angle. She gasps loudly and arches into him—well, that feels different. He lightly drags his teeth over her body and begins to speed up his thrusts. She's still hurting, but this time it's different; a new kind of ache is building inside of her—a wanting kind of ache. She groans deep in her throat; her head lolls. She draws her hands down his back and feels hardened muscles flex beneath her fingers. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realizes that, for a man old enough to be her father, he has quite a figure. All thoughts flew away the moment he kisses her again.

It seems like he's looking for a response this time, instead of the dead fish she's been. She hesitantly slides her tongue into his mouth. He sharply inhales through his nose and yanks her to him, ferociously kissing her. Her eyes roll back as he swallows her moans. She eventually twists from him to regain her breathing. He licks at her collarbone, panting breath hot against her sweating skin. She clings to him frantically, mewling, and feels this building ache at her lower stomach coil itself tighter, tighter; tighter. Finally, something bursts within her. She screams out in pleasure.

The feeling of her slick walls clamping down on him and her tremors pushes him over the edge. He thrusts deeply into her warmth, shuddering against her, then collapses on top of her. They breathe heavily, enfolded in each other's embrace. After a few moments, he withdraws. She proceeds to pass out, her arms going limp around his waist.

She wakes up the next day with the sun high up in the sky, obviously far past the time she was supposed to wake up. She blinks and rubs her eyes. The minor movement makes her realize her whole body hurts. Purplish bruises blotch her forearms. A massive headache is pounding its way down from her forehead all the way to the base of her skull. Then she notices something new on her nightstand. Her glasses lay on top of a pale-pinkish new shawl with brown embroidery; it's made out of pure silk. Next to it is a new bottle, but this one isn't filled with anything. Its yellow-green glass is encrusted with semi-precious gemstones.

The girl puts on her glasses, makes sure she is covered by the blanket; then she slowly sits up. She looks across the room to see her professor sitting by a mahogany table, reading a book. He's wearing the same suit he wore yesterday, only the jacket is hanging on the back of his chair and his sleeves are rolled up. He hears the sheets rustle and looks up to see his student glowering at him. He closes the book and places it on the table, readying himself for whatever violent assault she was certain to unleash.

"You think getting me some pretty things will make it all better?" Her is voice low and thick with emotion.

A muscle in his jaw twitches; he takes a deep breath and answers, "No…no, I doubt that very much indeed."

She presses her lips together into a thin line and looks away from him. After a few long moments, she sighs, "Well, then…we'll have to figure out something else you can do."

He looks at her curiously—well, he wasn't expecting that. He thought that she would throw the bottle at his head, perhaps come after him with her fists, grab anything in arm's reach and hurl it at him, tear the shawl to shreds in spite, threaten to tell all of the authorities from here to Kathmandu of what he did, or immediately call the University to report him of his atrocity.

She continues, a little apprehensively, "Don't…don't force me again. You have to promise me."

He waits until she looks at him before he says, "I promise."

He didn't ask for forgiveness and she sure as hell didn't offer it, but that's as close to a reconciliation as either are willing to make. Maybe they could overlook this incident and move on. Maybe they will choose to forget this incident ever occurred and never speak of it again. Maybe. Or maybe he just wants to slowly corrupt this innocent, naïve; little thing. Maybe after he's had his fill of her, he would leave her to her dreary life. Or maybe he would keep her, take her everywhere; show her everything. Maybe.

* * *

Please review!


End file.
